e first sob broke,
violent, real, uncontrollable. Then came the next, and then the storm of
tears. Griggs rose instinctively and came to her side. He leaned heavily
on the piano, bending down a little, helpless, as some men are at such
moments. She did not notice him, and her sobs filled the still room. As
he stood over her he could see the bright tears falling upon the black
and white ivory keys. He laid his trembling hand upon her shoulder. He
could hardly draw his breath for the sight of her suffering.

"Don't--don't," he said, almost pathetic in his lack of eloquence when
he thought he most needed it.

One of her hot hands, all wet with tears, went suddenly to her shoulder,
and grasped his that lay there, with a convulsive pressure, seeming to
draw him down as she bowed herself almost to the keyboard in her agony
of weeping. Then, without thought, his other hand, cold as ice, was
under her throat, bringing her head gently back upon his arm, till the
white face was turned up to his. Sob by sob, more distantly, the tempest
subsided, but still the great tears swelled the heavy lids and ran down
across her face upon his wrist. Then the wet, dark eyes opened and
looked up to his, above her head.

"Be my friend!" she said softly, and her fingers pressed his very
gently.

He looked down into her eyes for one moment, and then the passion in him
got the mastery of his honourable soul.

"How can I?" he cried in a broken, choking voice. "I love you!"

In an instant he was standing up, lifting her high from the floor, and
the lips that had perhaps never kissed for love before, were pressed
upon hers. What chance had she, a woman, in those resistless arms of
his? In her face was the still, fateful look of the dead nun, rising
from the far grave of a buried tragedy.

In his uncontrollable passion he crushed her to him, holding her up like
a child. She struggled and freed her hands and pressed them both upon
his two eyes.

"Please--please!" she cried.

There was a pitiful ring in the tone, like the bleating of a frightened
lamb. He hurt her too, for he was overstrong when he was thoughtless.

She cried out to him to let her go. But as she hung there, it was not
all fear that she felt. There came with it an uncertain, half-delirious
thrill of delight. To feel herself but a feather to his huge strength,
swung, tossed, kissed, crushed, as he would. There was fear already,
there was all her innocent maidenlike resistance,